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The Little Class with the Big Personality Experiences of Teaching a
Class of Young Children with Autism
Fran Hunnisett
Jessica Kingsley Publishers London and Philadelphia
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any
medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or
incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the
written
permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the
provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under
the terms of a licence issued by the
Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London,
England W1T 4LP. Applications for the copyright owner’s written
permission to reproduce any part of this
publication should be addressed to the publisher. Warning: The
doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may
result in
both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution.
The right of Fran Hunnisett to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2005 by Jessica Kingsley Publishers
116 Pentonville Road London N1 9JB, UK
and 400 Market Street, Suite 400 Philadelphia, PA 19106, USA
www.jkp.com
Copyright © Fran Hunnisett 2005
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Hunnisett, Fran,
1958- The little class with the big personality : experiences of
teaching a class of young children
with autism / Fran Hunnisett. p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13:
978-1-84310-308-0 (pbk.) ISBN-10: 1-84310-308-7 (pbk.) 1. Autistic
children--Education--England--Case studies. I. Title. LC4719.G7H86
2005 371.94--dc22
2004027025
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue
record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978 1 84310 308 0 ISBN-10: 1 84310 308 7
ISBN pdf eBook: 1 84642 110 1
Printed and Bound in Great Britain by Athenaeum Press, Gateshead,
Tyne and Wear
John Locke
‘But we don’t want to teach ’em’ replied the Badger. ‘We want to
learn ’em…’
Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
Acknowledgements
A huge ‘thank you’ to the seven children who inspired me to write
this book. Their determination, humour and BIG personalities have
enriched my life and given me much happiness.
Thanks also to their parents. Their constant good humour and
generosity have helped me far more than they realise and I want to
thank them for their trust and friendship over the years.
I am indebted to Janice for her expertise, advice and technological
support and for spurring me on to ‘go public’ with the book, and to
Elaine – for reading (and enjoying) the manuscript and correcting
my mistakes!
Extended thanks also go to the staff at the Unit, both past and
present, but especially all those I worked closely with over the
years.
Finally thanks to my parents for being proud of me and my family
for – well, all sorts, really!
Contents
3 The Philosopher 54
4 The Water-baby 71
6 The Diplomat 106
Postscript: A Note to Educators 140
APPENDIX 1: FUN BOOKS TO APPEAL TO YOUR CHILD 143
APPENDIX 2: REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING ON AUTISM AND ASPERGER’S
SYNDROME 145
APPENDIX 3: ORGANISATIONS 147
Preface
The events described in this book took place at a school in the
north of England for children with autism. When the author joined
the school it was known as ‘the Unit’ for reasons more to do with
lack of imagination than informative titles. Gradually, as the
status and size of the Unit increased, that title became
meaningless. The establishment now has a respectable, grown-up
school name and many more pupils. Although most parents refer to
the school by name, in the book I have used the term ‘the Unit’ as
a way of protecting the anonymity of the school.
The pupils still attend this now grown-up school, and are
themselves growing into young adults. They are no longer all in the
same class, but their parents keep in touch and that sense of
community that developed in those early years is still strong. When
I first made my rather tentative approaches to the parents about
writing a book about my first three years as a teacher at the Unit
I was not sure what their reactions might be. They were unanimously
enthusiastic about the project and gave me all the help I could
have asked for.
We reminisced about the variety of emotions, experiences and
challenges that made up those early years of their sons’ and
daughters’ education. The interviews in this book are wonderfully
honest accounts of how it feels to be a mother or a father of a
child with autism handing over the care of your child, albeit for
only five short days a week, into the care of a stranger. Whilst
talking to the parents it struck me that in those three years the
foundations were laid for lasting friendships that continue to this
day.
In these days of educational testing and target setting I think it
is impor- tant not to lose sight of the real value of education. In
the small community that made up my first class, we all, parents,
children and teachers, shared in the learning process and I think
we all took away some valuable lessons from the experience.
Ultimately, though, the most influential teachers at that time were
the children themselves. And they are still teaching us.
9
Alice’s Illustrations
Alice, now in her teens, appeared matter of fact when I asked her
if she would like to produce the illustrations for a book I was
writing about her first class. Her approach to the task was
methodical and thorough. As she got used to the idea, she began to
relax and while she drew we reminisced about that first class.
Sometimes, as she started a drawing, Alice would begin to chuckle.
She wouldn’t tell me who the drawing was about as she was working
on it, but she let me see it in various stages of completion,
inviting me to guess who it might be that she was drawing and what
the theme of the picture was. It was not until she had finished the
collection of drawings some weeks later that her look of
disappointment confirmed what I had suspected. Alice had thoroughly
enjoyed giving up her time to help me and would have happily
continued forever if only I had needed her to. Her love of drawing
had certainly not diminished since she was a little girl in Class
One.
What has changed is her style. As she has grown up Alice, perhaps
inevita- bly, has lost some of the spontaneity of her early years.
If some of the children in the pictures look older than expected it
is because Alice is now a young teenager. The rather glamorous
girls and hunky boys in some of the drawings reflect her interests
in American cartoons and computer games more than the memory of how
her classmates looked when they were five and six years old.
Even so she remembers their spirit, and the subjects she has chosen
to cel- ebrate moments in that first class are very apt. A rather
mature looking Lotti is floating in a pool, a wonderful reflection
of her love of water. Sam is seen reluctantly being taken for a
walk by his teacher (who looks remarkably like me, I must admit!).
She has captured a typical pose of Nathan’s, hunched up on a chair
with his coat over his head. Like me, she remembers Liam’s love of
taped music and Joss’s love of the train set that filled the
quieter moments of his energetic early years. Toby on a spacehopper
reminds us of his energy and bounce. Her picture of herself, with
Toby, waltzing around the classroom is a fitting picture to
represent a little girl who loved make-believe – the prince and
princess in their briefly created make-believe world of fairy tales
come true.
11
One week, at my home, she came across the naughty little princess
from Tony Ross’s book I Want My Potty. We recalled the fun times we
had as a class shouting out ‘She wants her potty!’ and it was clear
that, despite her love of more glamorous princesses, this scruffy
‘teddy princess’, as Alice calls her, holds a place of affection in
Alice’s memories just as it does in mine. She drew this picture of
the little princess. I include it as a testimony to the fun we had
as a class sharing, in our own unique ways, this much loved story.
I’m sure Tony Ross would be pleased to know how his little princess
has brought together a class of children with autism and their
teachers, helping to bind them into a very special community and
learning a little bit along the way about the true meaning of
education.
12 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
Introduction No Rainman
You get the Autism Awareness week and you get all these marvellous
autistic savants creeping out of the woodwork. It’s annoying
because the first thing you get is ‘Oh, autistic! They’re really
clever aren’t they?’
You are like ‘No!’
‘You mean he can’t count chopsticks thrown on the floor?’
(Quote from parent, talking about the general perception of
autism)
After a year of teaching a class of seven children with autism in a
special school I realised that nothing in the reading I had
absorbed, the programmes that I had watched or the conferences I
had attended related completely to my own experience as a teacher
of a vibrant class of five- to seven-year-olds. These children,
despite all having a diagnosis of autism, were as individual,
unique and overflowing with personality as any child I had taught
in the busy mainstream schools that had informed my earlier career
as a primary school teacher.
I was continually thirsty for knowledge about autism, eager for any
insight into this complex condition. One day at school I was
enthusing to Liam’s parents about a programme I had seen the
previous night. It was about Clara, a young woman with autism who
was now making a living selling her paintings. Some years earlier I
had read an account of the first eight years of Clara’s life
(Claiborne Park 1983). It detailed her journey through an array of
fears and challenges to come to some understanding of how to
function in an
13
apparently frightening world. I had been very moved by the
dedication, determination and hopefulness that surrounded this
little girl who was fright- ened of the colour red and overwhelmed
by her own identity.
Talking with Liam’s parents about the programme and its optimistic
outlook, I was brought up short by Warren’s response. Without
self-pity he said:
That’s all very well, Fran, but that’s not our Liam. He’s just an
ordinary boy with autism and he always will be. He doesn’t make a
good story or interesting TV. There’s going to be no miracle cure.
He’s just who he is with all his difficulties. No one wants to know
about the ordinary ones.
Looking at Liam pacing the perimeter of the playground, head
pressed against the metal structure, eyes fixed on the passing
pattern of wire mesh, I knew what Warren meant. Liam was Liam, a
boy with autism who would plod through life much like we all do,
with no one to blow his trumpet for him and without the talents of
a ‘Rainman’ to impress and intrigue the wider world. He was just an
ordinary child from an ordinary family living with an extraor-
dinary diagnosis and battling through life to make the best of
it.
Except that he wasn’t just ordinary, any more than any of the other
seven children in my class of autistic children was simply
ordinary. There was Joss, with his love of running; Alice, waiting
to meet her Prince Charming; thoughtful Nathan and gregarious Toby;
Lotti, with her love of wind and rain; peace-loving Sam and Liam –
cheeky Liam with his capacity to liven up the whole class with one
mischievous action. Each of these children brought something of
themselves that profoundly changed my understanding of autism and
affected me personally in a way I still find difficult to express.
Each shared the same diagnosis – a diagnosis that suggested a
standardised absence of character – yet each was so different from
the other that their vibrant per- sonalities were of far more
significance in defining who they were than their shared diagnosis
of autism.
* * *
14 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
It is all too easy to set children with autism up as rare
creatures, both fascinat- ing and intriguing. There is something
about the condition that excites our curiosity. Autism has been
referred to as an enigma and there are two commonly held but
contrasting views about what it means to be autistic. One view is
that everyone with autism has some wonderful, exotic talent that
shines through their strangeness, so that we can marvel and shake
our heads in wonder. The apparent redeeming factor of an
extraordinary talent amidst an otherwise crippling condition
somehow makes it easier for us to accept the disability as
something special, something apart from other disabilities that
somehow seem easier to get to grips with. This air of the exotic is
so compel- ling as to even be the subject of movies – Rainman, for
example, leading to a popular misconception that all people with
autism have a wonderful talent, the ‘You mean he can’t count
chopsticks thrown on the floor?’ misunderstand- ing that so
frustrates parents of children like Liam.
The second view of autism is at the other extreme. In this populist
under- standing autism is seen as a disability that completely
isolates the individual from the regular world. Here the image is a
bleak and frightening one of a child locked in a world of its own
unable to relate to anyone. The idea of someone being unable to
relate to his or her fellow human beings in any way is an awful one
to contemplate. We are, after all, primarily social beings. We
interact with and need other people around us to feel complete. The
pleasures of social interaction are as natural to us as breathing.
In this view of autism we are distressed at the thought of such
lonely isolation. Pity is mingled with dis- belief that anyone
could face life being so afraid of other people. The desire to
reach out and break down the barriers is strong. The corresponding
frustra- tion at not being able to do so leaves us with a hollow
feeling of helplessness. These two extremes of what it means to be
autistic were very prevalent in my early reading. Up to that point
I had never knowingly met anyone with autism.
I was then invited to a newly transferred Unit for children with
autism with a view to applying for a job there. During my visit a
class of secondary age pupils with autism were on a pre-arranged
visit to the head teacher’s office, as part of a social skills
lesson. There was a knock at the door and simul- taneously, before
the Head had time to say ‘come in’, a lanky young man in his teens
marched into the room with a determined air and unceremoniously
plonked himself on my knee. Sitting with his back to me he ignored
all my attempts to be sociable.
INTRODUCTION 15
The teacher and the rest of the class followed behind. One or two
pupils sat down, others stood apparently helpless until the teacher
and her assistant steered them towards chairs and encouraged them
to sit. One boy, as if rooted to the floor, had to be led gently by
the arm and nudged into place. A young lady said ‘Hello’ to the
Head in a rather flustered, gushing voice. A painfully shy gangly
lad, blushing to his core, also said ‘Hello’. It was clear the
effort of being sociable had been difficult. He looked painfully
self-conscious and was unable to give eye contact to anyone as he
spoke, but a gentle smile neverthe- less broke across his tense
face. The teacher, with a quiet unassuming voice, called to the boy
on my knee. She patted a seat next to her and told the boy to come
and sit down. Without a backward glance he got up and slumped down
in the chair. He did not look at the teacher or me. He said
nothing.
Later I had a tour of the Unit. I remember the child who had a
mouthful of leaves that he had grabbed at the end of playtime. They
were now being extri- cated from his mouth. I sat next to a little
boy who immediately got up and left the Lego model he had been so
absorbed in. He stood a respectful distance away, watching us
furtively from the safety of the far wall. A large boy leapt to his
feet as soon as we entered his classroom, nearly knocking his chair
over in his enthusiasm to give me a great bear hug. Another boy
asked me my date of birth. Once given the information he appeared
satisfied and went back to his work. The young lady who had spoken
in the office was now head bent over a maths problem, muttering
crossly to herself, whilst a rather sullen young man rocked
aggressively back and forth on his chair. I remember the quiet
confi- dence of the staff and the ease with which they dealt with
the different situa- tions. All that I saw fitted well into the
reading I had done and confirmed my preconceptions about
autism.
* * * Months later I became a member of the team. I was appointed
as teacher for ‘Class One’. It turned out to be the most
interesting, rewarding and challeng- ing time of my life. This was
exactly the job/vocation I had been searching for. I had become one
of those lucky people for whom work married perfectly with my
personality. I felt at home. Not that all that was apparent to me
on my first day.
For example, on that first day not one child in my new class fell
for my usual charms as a teacher. In fact many seemed to do
everything they could to ignore me or, better still, make me go
away. As a teacher who prided herself in her ability to strike up
an instant rapport with even the shyest, most reluctant
16 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
pupil, I have to admit I found this all rather disconcerting. It
was unsettling to find I had no instant impact on a child despite
my most tried and tested charm assault. Worse, it was positively
distressing to discover that by doing nothing, just by being
quietly, unassumingly myself, I could trigger a distressed tantrum
that seemed to go on forever. It broke into all those preconceived
ideas about myself that made me confident that I was, indeed, the
sort of teacher that could make a valuable contribution to the
education of these children.
It wasn’t that I came to the job completely ignorant of autism. I
have already explained that I had avidly read every one of the
biographies that were available, every textbook that I could lay my
hands on and every advice leaflet that the National Autistic
Society had to give me. But none of the books prepared me for the
simple fact that a child with autism is exactly that. A
child.
I was not alone in this view. Toby’s parents explain their
impressions once Toby began school.
…I think of all the books that we read…you thought they [children
with autism] were all sort of the same. But once he was in the
school and you met more children and more parents you realise they
are all totally individual. There is a style that runs through them
all, but I suppose that is the same for everybody…
As you read about the seven children in my first class you will
recognise the textbook features of autism (or ‘the style’ as Toby’s
parents so aptly describe it) but over and above that you will meet
seven very distinct children with dis- parate personalities;
children who are reacting to one another and to the social world of
the classroom as individually as you would expect any children to
react. The heights and depths of their reactions are what make this
class of children different from any other class, and the job of
teaching them so much more exciting.
Firmly committed to the notion that education is a journey for both
learner and teacher I quickly adjusted my approach and soon
discovered that I was, in fact, able to bring the same values,
determination and sense of discov- ery into this small class of
children with autism as I had to my other teaching experiences. It
was the scale of the challenge that set it apart. Believing that it
is better to have high expectations than low ones – the history of
special edu- cation sadly suggests that low expectations have often
held back both our understanding and our ability to help children
develop to their full potential – I strove to make the classroom a
lively successful learning forum where every achievement was valued
and celebrated. Being part of a team was invaluable
INTRODUCTION 17
here. The competent confidence of Sally and Erin, my two
experienced teaching assistants, eased me gently into the hurly
burly of classroom life and helped me maintain both a sense of
proportion and a sense of humour. I was honest enough to admit that
I did not know what to do, and Sally and Erin were kind enough to
assure me that I was doing fine.
It was not long before I understood that all the children in my
class could and did form relationships, however fragile or
transient those relationships sometimes were. These relationships
were all the more special because they blossomed despite a plethora
of social and emotional difficulties conspiring against them. By
their very nature they were subtle relationships, often not easily
recognisable, certainly not as easygoing as regular relationships
can be, but all the more precious for that. The privilege of trust
and friendship was hard won, but once given it was discernible in
every challenge, every upset, every frustration and every joy that
the children experienced. Lotti’s mum put it succinctly, when she
talked about her developing relationship with her daughter.
…She paid more attention to the television than me – cartoons and
that. I thought, if I put a cardboard box over my head she might
look at me…but as soon as she gave that little bit back… I thought
well yes you are – for all you might look as if you aren’t taking
notice – you are.
So I discovered that you don’t have to be Rainman, you don’t have
to have an outstanding talent and you don’t have to overcome your
disability to be worthy of celebration. As you read about the
delightful personalities of the
18 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
children who are constantly striving to learn to live and be happy
in our con- fusing social world I trust it will give you food for
thought. Without their per- sonalities, and without their autism,
they would not be the people they are, and I for one would not have
had my life enriched by them in the profound way that it has been.
Getting to know these children has been a great privi- lege. It has
shown me the importance of give and take in relationships no matter
what point you start from.
This book strives to be a frank account of one small class of
children with autism in all its rich variety, but above all it is a
celebration of a very special community of teachers, parents and
children who, at one time in their lives, were intimately woven
together through many small but significant chal- lenges and
triumphs. I hope you enjoy getting to know the children and their
families as much as I have.
INTRODUCTION 19
Chapter 1
The Runner
Joss is a slight, elfin like boy, with huge brown eyes and long
dark lashes. He was diagnosed with autism at three years and eight
months and started full-time education when he was four years and
ten months old. He occasion- ally uses single words to communicate
but relies on leading adults towards his needs and wants. If upset
or anxious he becomes very quiet and withdrawn. When he can hold
back no longer he cries, but rejects comfort. Joss likes tickles
and will hold hands and cuddle against you, on his terms. He likes
lining up toys, running and counting.
* * * Joss and I feel much the same by the end of our first day.
Wrung out. The dif- ference is that as we are singing the goodbye
song I keep smiling, giving off vibes that I am in control of the
situation, whereas Joss sits wide-eyed and silent, curled up like a
tiny human ball. His bottom lip is quivering. He looks at his knees
trying to shut out the chatter of children and adults that surround
him. He angrily rebuffs comforting arms. He is desperately trying
to be brave.
Alice, an old-timer and already standing out as the most
cooperative member of the class, is the only child joining in the
singing, albeit only spas- modically. Erin, one of my two
indispensable teaching assistants, jollies her along. Sally, matter
of fact and motherly, is preoccupied with making sure Lotti does
not get over friendly with Nathan. Nathan is sitting with his back
to the group studying the Beano. Toby is jumping excitedly up and
down
20
calling out ‘see Clive, see Clive’, the driver of the Orange Bus,
whose arrival will signal the end of this first, long day. Alice,
Toby, Lotti and Nathan are the four established members of the
class. They have at least five years of collec- tive classroom
experience behind them. Liam and Sam, the other two ‘new starters’,
are yet to join us. Someone, thankfully, has made the decision to
stagger the start for the new children. By virtue of his age – or
maybe in response to parental desperation – Joss is the first to
join the established four, in what is known imaginatively as Class
One.
Joss has no idea what to expect of his first day at school.
Although I am an experienced mainstream teacher, I too am hardly
prepared for the feelings I have at the end of my first day. In one
day I have met with more professional, physical and emotional
challenges than in a term at what I would have described as the
challenging primary school I had just left. But I have a wealth of
understanding and professional optimism to carry me through the
day. Joss has autism. He has remained a silent, passive and
wide-eyed boy throughout the day – an emotional closed book. I know
that this day of challenges and strange new happenings will soon be
over. Joss probably does not know if he will ever be back home
again. He does not understand that after the singing he will get on
the bus and be driven back to his family. All he knows is that his
whole day has been a series of changing events and unfamiliar faces
and now he has reached the limits of his limited coping strategies.
He arrived in the morning, a fragile, silent little five-year-old.
He made a beeline for the box of Duplo and busied himself lining up
the cars and trucks end to end in a line that stretched across the
classroom floor.
From that moment it becomes his favourite toy. He spends the rest
of the day warding off adults and children alike from an imaginary
but impenetrable barrier he creates around himself. Guarding his
treasures like an over-vigilant security guard, his Dalek-like arm
wards off any potential invaders.
Now, as he sits with his knees pressed up against his little chin,
arms wrapped firmly around his legs, fingers locked tight, an air
of sadness creeps over him like a fine mist. Uncomfortably poised
between confident Alice and bouncy Toby, Joss’s demeanour begins to
change. He starts to fall apart. His large innocent eyes well up
with tears. His soft delicate bottom lip, which has hardly moved
all day, starts to tremble. His small slight shoulders begin to
shake until, to our collective dismay, enormous tears spill over
his long dark lashes and pour like a burst dam down his delicate
bone china cheeks. Silent sobbing fills the room.
THE RUNNER 21
There is nothing anyone can do to console him. Keeping each of us
at bay with a determined angry push, the silent tears keep falling.
All the tension, anxiety and confusion of this, his first day at
school, comes pouring out and threatens to overwhelm him. It is
almost too much to bear, seeing him so unreachably unhappy.
Instinctively I want to wrap him up in my arms and reassure him
that everything will be all right. But the steep learning curve
that is my first day as a teacher of children with autism has
already shown me that instinct and normal rules don’t necessarily
apply. Joss has made it abundantly clear that touch is not
something that he finds comforting, and contact with kind people is
a threat, not a consolation.
So, although my heart goes out to him, I have to suppress my
instincts. Instead I continue in as calm and jolly a voice as I can
muster to sing the goodbye song. I repeat, for all who may or may
not understand, that as the pictures on our timetable show, after
‘singing’ it is time for ‘bus’ and ‘home’. Knowing how emotionally
wrung out I feel I can well appreciate that for a little boy with
no language, little understanding and not a clue that soon he will
be back with his mum, dad and big brother, the day has become
simply too much to handle.
A few minutes earlier, I had confidently written that Joss had
coped remarkably well with all the strange new routines and people
he had met today. Up to the time of writing this had appeared true.
Admittedly he had not let anyone too near him while he was playing
with the train set. True, he had barely looked up from the floor,
avoiding eye contact with everyone who tried to engage with him.
But he had held hands to walk to the dinner hall. He had been out
in the yard for a play. And he had sat at the table with us all,
ready to listen to our goodbye song.
22 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
He had not said a word. But he does have severe communication
problems, so that is understandable. In fact, it is three days
before we really hear Joss speak, and when he does it is with such
an apologetic, faraway little voice that if you aren’t right next
to him, listening out for it, you can easily mistake it for the
whisper of the wind. And he hadn’t cried. Until now.
It is no wonder, I thought, that this little scrap of a boy who
cannot explain how he feels, cannot turn to anyone for comfort,
does not understand what is about to happen, is crying. Even tough
little boys with more language and bravado than is acceptable on a
first day at school can suffer the wobbles for mum when home time
finally looms.
Joss is going home to his mum. I can well imagine what a long day
it has been for her too, wondering anxiously whether her little boy
is in caring, understanding hands. The tears continue to fall,
droplets of sadness that had it not been for the arrival of Clive
and the longed for ‘Orange Bus’ I would be adding to with my own
tears, not only in sympathy but also out of the unfa- miliar
helplessness I feel wanting to reach out and comfort this little
boy, but knowing that it will only cause him greater distress. It
is an uncomfortable feeling, this helplessness. I have always been
able to establish a rapport with children and quickly make them
feel at ease with me. It is disconcerting to feel so deskilled in
such a fundamental way. This feeling of helplessness is, of course,
all too familiar to anyone trying to make contact with a child with
autism, a child who is unable to accept the natural comfort that a
hug and a kind word can give. It is a helplessness that I will
experience again and again while working with these children, but
never with the intensity of this first day. Gradually, I learn to
accept that it is inevitable that in any relationship with children
so complex and individual I will experience both emotional highs
and lows as together we try to make sense of this enigma called
autism. So it is that Joss and I end our first day. Emotionally
exhausted and with barely time to turn around before it starts
again.
* * * Of course, neither Joss nor I stay in this fragile state for
long, I am pleased to say. However, throughout that year, as we
both develop strategies for coping with the complexities of autism
in a busy classroom and gain confidence in our new status, he as
pupil, me as teacher, he will occasionally have moments when that
hidden well of emotion will overwhelm him and he will weep silently
and inconsolably. And at those times I will watch, as helpless as
on that first day to stem the flow of his private
unhappiness.
THE RUNNER 23
In time, after ‘the honeymoon period’ is over, Joss’s other
personality emerges. As he finds his feet we discover the flip side
of the silent self-con- tained boy. Joss loves to run. Fast. And
climb. And jump. And giggle and quiver with excitement. Excitement
from escaping. I begin to suspect that those early days, those
fragile early days, have merely been a front, behind which Joss has
been methodically sussing out the lay of the land and making
plans.
It begins innocently enough. The occasional bolt out of the
classroom door and down the corridor, where a locked door prevents
further distance. This is easy to deal with. I tear after him, take
his hand and lead him, his little body quivering with giggles, big
eyes gleefully glinting, calmly back to the classroom. Joss seems
to think this is what being in school is all about. We confer. We
decide, giving him the benefit of the doubt, that it is his way of
avoiding tricky situations (touching sticky dough during cooking,
perhaps, or not wanting to finish a jigsaw). It is his way of
communicating with us. We are used to trying to interpret
non-communicative behaviour and this seems a rea- sonable
assumption. It does not, in fact, hold water. The bolts out of the
class- room become more frequent. They appear to be linked not so
much with anxiety as with opportunity and a good mood. The novelty
of fetching him back begins to wear thin. We confer again.
He does seem to rather like the chase, we agree. We try a different
tack. We decide to remove the drama – the chase, the chastising,
the whole noise and fuss. We think that if we are more nonchalant
about bringing him back, if we don’t give him the satisfaction of
knowing he is being chased, then he won’t get so giggly and the fun
will go out of it for him. It’s a well-tried strategy. It is in
lots of the books about behaviour management. It has worked for
other children. It seems both plausible and practical. In reality,
it merely gives him more time to do the running, to end up in
another classroom, or the office or even, joy of joys, the Soft
Play Room. And it is nearly impossible to be non- chalant when
returning to the classroom. Joss is so happy on these occasions
that he gives his best (conspiratorial) eye contact, makes the most
open attempts at sharing a moment and is, frankly, so disarmingly
sweet with his gleefully mischievous grin and his bouncy chuckling
body that inevitably he breaks down our carefully composed
demeanour. Once he sees even the faintest smile escape from our
lips he knows that victory is his. As he returns to the classroom
he is one very happy child.
Outwitted, we realise that we will have to revise our strategy.
‘Why not make it more difficult to get out?’ seems an obvious
question inviting a simple solution. A bit of classroom
reorganisation and we manage to create a chal-
24 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
lenging route involving a bit of climbing, a bit of jumping, a
wriggle here, a squeeze there. The theory is that we will have time
to distract him in the class- room before he gets out of the door.
In practice, the minute our backs are turned to deal with some
drama or other (and it will become evident that dramas practically
fill our working days) Joss is off. He just loves the extra
challenge. His squeals of delight alert us to his skilful exit. If
he could articu- late his opinion about the new classroom layout,
contrary to all the textbooks that state categorically that
‘children with autism do not like change’, I am sure he would thank
us profusely for making his escape so much more satisfy- ingly
challenging.
We are, of course, very much aware of the downside of this aspect
of Joss’s character. He has absolutely no sense of danger. Within
the safe environs of school we can contain his impulses. We do, of
course, try to do more than that. While I have painted a picture of
Joss’s emerging confidence and successful outwitting of our
attempts to keep him within the four walls of the classroom, we
learn from Joss and try to develop in him a sense of
self-control.
The PE hall is a considerable distance from the classroom. It
involves going through locked doors that separate us from the main
part of the school. While walking to the hall it is possible to run
away in three different direc- tions. All lead ultimately to
unlocked doors, and escape to school fields or the school car park.
So we are very vigilant. We realise Joss needs to have his hand
held to make it safely into the hall. He becomes extremely giggly
on these occasions, and it soon becomes clear he is constantly
thinking about the possi- bility of escaping. To break this
obsession, and encourage some self-control (something his mother is
understandably very anxious for him to develop), we begin to
encourage Joss to walk alone, forcing him to take control of
himself instead of always relying on us. He responds well to this.
When he is able to curb his impulse to run through the corridors
and enter the PE hall calmly we reward him with a chase around the
PE hall and lots of smiles and jumping about, which he loves. Of
course, someone is always within a whisker of him when he is going
it alone, nonchalantly nearby, poised like a spring to grab him
should his impulses get the better of him. Gradually, he is able to
make the trek from classroom to hall without the need for such
close supervision. We are pleased with this progress, but know it
is fragile. For the more sociable and happy Joss is, the more alert
we are to the possibility of an escape. We are learning to read the
signs. Pleased as we are with his progress, Joss is a long way from
being in control of his impulse to run and it simmers below the
surface most days, especially when he is happy.
THE RUNNER 25
But at least we know he is safe and within our grasp. We are now
alert to his moods and know the parts of the school where we have
to be extra vigilant. The locked door at the end of the corridor
ensures that during class time at the very least it is only an
inconvenience to fetch him and at most an irritation to be
continually outwitted by a sweet, sensitive five-year-old. So we
manage. It becomes part of the possibility of our day. And for a
while, Joss is satisfied with this level of adventure. But Joss has
ambitions. The corridor is one thing. The Great Outdoors is
something else.
If I have been doing Joss an injustice to suggest that in those
early, uncer- tain days at the beginning of term Joss might have
been planning his Corridor Great Escape Plan, I have no such
reservations about Joss’s next venture. This had to be the
culmination of a well thought-out strategy. How else could he have
co-ordinated time, place and action so cleverly?
I have already mentioned that the corridor ended with a locked
door. We go through this door to the PE hall, as explained. The
corridor also leads to the dinner hall, which is in fact a vast
open space with three possible escape routes from it. Fortunately
the serving area and our tables are well away from the escape
routes and we are amply provided with dinner staff to help us
during this potentially fraught time. We are all alerted to the
possibility these escape routes offer and Joss is kept busy and
focused on the business of getting and eating his dinner.
The serving area is in front of the kitchen, the doors of which are
open to allow the free passage of trays of potatoes, funny face
fish cakes, dinosaur burgers and the obligatory boiled cabbage that
graces the dining halls of schools the length and breadth of the
country. At the back of the kitchen, barely visible from the hall,
is a door that opens up onto the car park. This door is usually
shut, but on hot days (which, as you will appreciate, are few and
far between) Lorna, our relentlessly cheerful cook, will leave it
open. Not that any of us are aware of this fact – yet. If we had
been aware, we would have noted that it is only possible to see a
sliver of daylight, barely a hint of an enticing outdoor world. It
is certainly not a great open invitation. But we are not aware. It
just isn’t the sort of thing you take notice of in the normal run
of school mealtimes when your concentration is focused on helping
seven children through the ritual of choosing dinner, pudding and a
drink from an array of choices they can’t even see because their
little noses barely reach up to the tops of the serving
counter.
Because of their age and their differing communication difficulties
every child in the class needs help at dinnertime and we are well
served with extra
26 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
dinner staff. Everyone has very particular needs regarding food
choice. It is rare for children with autism to like variety in
their diet and our class are no exception. The challenge is to
remember what each one likes or, more impor- tantly, dislikes,
since any infringement onto the tray of unwanted food items or
unacceptable combinations of foods can lead to one of several
responses (in increasing order of potential disaster):
• loud squeals of disapproval expressed in no uncertain terms:
‘Take them off, they make me sick’ (Alice’s preferred
response)
• adamant refusal to move tray and self along the food counter
until offending item(s) are removed (Toby)
• throwing the food back at the server in disgust (Lotti)
• standing passively as tray is filled by adult, all the while
trying to contain disappointment, until point is reached when
unstoppable tears flow (Joss)
• dropping self onto floor and having major tantrum until clean
tray with correct food is satisfactorily presented (Nathan).
As can be appreciated, we adults work hard to avoid the need for
any of these responses by remembering, guiding, guessing and,
ultimately, hoping that we have learned and remembered the
particular gastronomic quirks of the child we are helping that day.
Dinnertimes, then, are potentially fraught occasions and we put all
our concentration into ensuring that each child arrives at a table
happy and ready to eat their chosen fare. It is fair to say that no
attention is given by us to look out for gaps in doors barely
visible through other doors and food counters.
Joss is passive about what goes on his tray in the early days and
it is diffi- cult to assess his likes and dislikes without him
dissolving into those silent sobs that so defeat any attempts to
comfort him. At least with a tantrum it is clear when the mistakes
have been rectified. With Joss, the tears often continue to fall
long after the problem has been sorted, leaving a trail of false
clues that make it difficult for us to remedy his predicament. It
takes a long time to get it right. The hardest thing to understand
is that funny face fish cakes with mashed potatoes are exactly what
Joss loves, but only if the fish cake is on one side of the tray
and the mashed potato on the opposite side so that neither touch
one another.
The tears make us feel very protective towards Joss. It is
unimaginably sad to know he is struggling to communicate, without
words, something that is of
THE RUNNER 27
such importance to him. We all agree that these silent tears make
us feel more helpless than a tantrum does, as they seem to come
from the very depths of his soul and only begin to fall after Joss
has lost the battle for self-control that rages within him,
rendering him finally emotionally exposed. I think this feeds our
belief that Joss is a vulnerable little waif who needs our
protection. It is very gratifying seeing him make increasing steps
towards independence. As term progresses Joss is able to move
confidently along the food counter to collect a funny face fish
cake, mashed potato (placed carefully next to, not touching, the
funny face), toffee yoghurt and a drink of milk. Then, with only
minimum help, he will wend his way between tables and children and
settle down to begin his dinner.
On this particular day Joss is smiling and giggling, giving lots of
eye contact and generally being very happy with life. Alarm bells
should have rung, if only faintly. But it is one of those good days
when no one is upset; everyone is happy. Everything is going
swimmingly. The children are all getting on with the business of
choosing their food and settling down to eat. Looking at Joss’s
happy demeanour gives me considerable pleasure. He is defi- nitely
settled in his new class and it is satisfying to see him jiggle and
giggle his way along the counters to choose the foods he enjoys.
Lorna reminds the new potato server to put his scoop next to but
not touching (‘he don’t like that’) his fish cake. Joss carefully
picks out his favourite toffee flavoured yoghurt – another step
towards independence, I note. I smile encouragingly back as Joss
turns with his milk carefully balanced on his tray to walk towards
his table, following close behind me.
Crash! Milk splashes up my legs and the soft plop of mashed potato
splat- ters on the floor. Exasperated that Joss’s happiness is
about to be snatched from him by an accident that will almost
certainly reduce him to silent sobs, I turn to reassure and comfort
the little boy. He isn’t there. As I move forward my foot slips on
the mashed potato and milky goo spreading over the floor and I
slide unceremoniously onto my bottom. I yell ‘Joss’ as, ducking and
diving between the tight array of tables, chairs, children and
staff, I catch a glimpse of Joss’s bottom disappearing under the
serving counter and into the kitchen. He is making his bid for
freedom. My attempts to swiftly follow are thwarted by the slippery
mix of congealing mashed potato and milk and I barely manage to
stay upright, let alone go in hot pursuit of the wily fugitive. His
escape route effectively clear and with the element of surprise and
chaos giving him a distinct advantage, Joss makes it to the back of
the kitchen, to the door he has seen that has been left ever so
slightly open. With a whoop of
28 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
delight Joss dashes through the door and triumphantly finds himself
in the Great Outdoors of the school car park.
Thankfully, his strategy fails him at this point. He pauses.
Whether this is because he has achieved his goal, or whether he
needs time to assess the unfa- miliar layout of the car park before
fleeing victoriously into the Great Beyond, we will never know.
Before he has time to move, Lorna, who has just returned to the
kitchen to get more fish cakes, registers first the whoop of
delight and then the slight figure of Joss disappearing through the
now wide open door. She hurls herself outside and catches up with
him.
Joss is not upset at being caught. There are no tears. No attempt
to pull away. He gives no signs of disappointment or frustration at
the outcome of his little escapade. On the contrary he takes his
capture with equanimity and is led back as giggly and happy as he
was a few minutes earlier with dinner in hand and a hall full of
staff to care for him. The staff are considerably shaken.
Joss spends the rest of the day chuckling gleefully to himself. His
autism apparently does not prevent him from enjoying the recall of
the adrenalin rush he must have experienced in those brief but
glorious moments of escape. I am sure he is revelling in the
exhilaration of a plan well executed. He bears us no grudges,
remaining in good humour throughout the day. He never tries to
escape that way again – we never give him the opportunity. Security
is tight- ened and an ever more thorough recce of potential escape
routes is now our first priority wherever we go. It becomes
increasingly difficult to keep one step ahead of him, and it
becomes a nagging worry that one day he may come to harm.
Joss continues to keep us on our toes. We learn to be suspicious of
his hyper giggly states, remembering how they can lull us into a
false sense of security. But Joss continues to be Joss, wide-eyed
and innocent looking. His sad still self still engenders feelings
of protectiveness in us and he continues to beguile us with his
quiet gentle ways.
* * * To be fair, Joss’s next adventure comes about more through
our fault than through his planning, as we are well aware of his
desire to climb the fence. This state of affairs comes about as a
result of a sad lack of interesting and stimulating playground
equipment, a source of much frustration to staff and pupils alike.
A year ago a wooden climbing frame that was well used and liked by
many pupils was vandalised and burned down. With neither money nor
a clear strategy of how to avoid a similar fate happening to new
equipment, plus
THE RUNNER 29
a mountain of bureaucratic indifference and an array of Health and
Safety issues darkening the way forward, the playground is,
frankly, boring.
Of course, there are a few children for whom an unimaginative piece
of tarmac, with grass along one edge and an array of trees and
bushes separating it from the outside world on two sides, is
exciting enough. These are the children who are happy enough to
stalk the perimeter fences admiring the patterns of light on metal
or who like to stand engrossed with a piece of string or a blade of
grass deep in their unfathomable autistic world view.
Children with autism are not good at making up games with friends,
devising imaginary worlds that transform a dull playground into an
adventure wonderland that accommodates endless varieties of
imaginative games. We buy an array of freestanding play equipment.
Gradually, these toys dwindle in number and variety as children
find new and generally worrying uses for them. Bolts become
mysteriously unscrewed from bikes, rendering them lethal; balls are
thrown over the fence at the row of parked cars; children become
hysterical over the need to turn take; one of the larger lads finds
it very enjoyable to lift up the wheeled tyre and hurl it at the
fence, for the pleasure of hearing it rattle. The large toys are
gradually withdrawn to safe- guard the lives of others and soft
balls that can do no damage to cars are sub- stituted. We all wait
for the money to turn the yard into a safe and fun-filled
playground again.
Joss arrives when playground distractions have reached an all-time
low. He is neither a pacer nor a ball thrower. He likes to climb.
So it is that Joss learns to climb the chain link fence between the
yard and the inner courtyard of the school. It is the only thing
left in the playground with any challenge factor to it. Of course,
as soon as we see this, we discourage him, offering him enticing
games with the light balls, or interesting chases around the grass.
However, a child with autism who has an ambition will not allow
anyone or anything to deter him from his chosen activity. Joss
humours us but time and again he makes it to the fence. Time and
again staff on playground duty lead him away and it becomes a major
preoccupation to deter Joss from climbing the chain link fence. It
becomes a huge frustration that we have nothing that will prove
more attractive than the fence to lure him from it. We curse the
vandals and wait hopefully for money to build a new, flame-proof
climbing frame. All the while Joss continues his obsession with the
chain link fence, gaining greater and greater height at each
snatched opportunity. We comfort ourselves with the fact that it
will be impossible to actually get over the top, as
30 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
the fence is angled to deter the vandals. (How come that doesn’t
set alarm bells ringing?)
We continue to thwart his heart’s desire. He tries hard to devise
opportu- nities to get to and over the fence before we catch up
with him. He tries to be the first out, hoping that the time lag
will give him the necessary head start, but it is never quite
enough. He tries distracting staff. One innocent little remark
‘Look, aeroplane’ both charms and thrills us, as it is the first
time we have heard Joss put two words together and engage with an
adult for a shared experience. We are very moved. While we are
being moved, gazing up at the aeroplane and doing appropriate
teacher activity, like extending the language and acknowledging the
personal exchange ‘Yes Joss, I can see the aeroplane too. Isn’t it
high?’, Joss has gained an advantage and manages to get ever closer
to his goal of the top of the fence. But again we are too quick for
him and with good grace he climbs back down and giggles off to hang
around near the bushes. He likes to disappear behind the bushes,
along with a few others. It is like a little den. Given the lack of
other excitement in the yard we are happy to tolerate this, as it
is possible to see what is going on from the sidelines. But to be
fair, I think we all know, Joss and the staff, that it is only a
matter of time before opportunity and talent will get the better of
us.
Eventually, the day arrives, as we knew it would. A crisis happens
that takes the full attention of the three staff on duty and Joss
shamelessly takes advantage of us in the seconds before back-up
staff arrive. It is a great shock to see Joss running past us on
the other side of the fence and it takes several bemused moments to
react, run through the corridor to the entrance hall, open the
French windows that lead onto the inner courtyard and catch him. As
we race after him, unsuitably dressed for a mini marathon in smart
shoes and tight skirt – no match for Joss in his trainers and
shorts – Joss’s enjoyment increases. Gleefully glancing back at us,
puffing, panting and shouting (wasting precious breath and time in
the process), Joss continues to have the advantage for several
metres. Like a rabbit looking for its burrow, he gives little leaps
of sheer exuberance. This is what school should be about!
But he is still only five, and we are adults. He may have the
relative speed advantage, but we have longer legs and a bigger
incentive to bring this chase to an end. It will be one thing
explaining to his mum that he has climbed the fence and escaped,
but the humiliation of having to admit that little Joss can outrun
us spurs us into greater effort and we finally catch up with
him.
We are, naturally, too short of breath by now to say anything to
him about the seriousness of his crime, but to be frank, what would
have been the point?
THE RUNNER 31
Joss is Joss. Running is his joy. He has a joyful few minutes (is
that all? It feels like a lifetime) and now he is safe. And for a
boy with so few real pleasures in life, is it fair to take away his
obvious delight in the freedom and exhilaration he has had as he
raced across the playing field in wonderful abandonment? And boy,
is he pleased with himself ! This is his greatest achievement yet,
and he loves it. He comes back to school happier than he has ever
been, skipping, jumping, giggling and laughing. Of course we do
struggle to do our adult duty to be cross with him. We try to
impress on him the seriousness of his crime. We make picture
communications about not running, not climbing, keeping safe. We
are realistic, however. We know we are making only the most
superficial of impressions. We understand that this is Joss. He is
oblivious to our concerns.
The rest of his day, as before, is spent reliving the moments, the
smile of satisfaction beaming across his face emanating blissful
fulfilment of his dream. Singing our goodbye song that night, Joss
certainly doesn’t cry and he positively skips onto the Orange Bus.
As he waves goodbye a shiver of glee runs through him. Without any
verbal communication he leaves us in no doubt at all that today has
been one of his best days at school so far! As we wave goodbye we
turn to join the rest of the staff for a meeting. Top of the Agenda
is ‘Playground Safety’. And this is only his first year!
* * * Despite all the inconvenience and worry Joss puts us through
with his esca- pades one thing is certain. To see Joss giggling and
happy after one of his adventures (whether minor or major) is to
see his spirit in action. Beyond the silent, withdrawn, emotionally
overwhelmed Joss is a mischievous little boy who finds expression
in a way that many little boys without his severe diffi- culties
would relate to and cheer. A child without autism may be better
deterred by an adult’s remonstrations. They may lower their
ambitions in the light of what is socially acceptable (every
five-year-old learns that you stay in class until the bell goes,
however boring Miss Smith’s explanation of number bonds is, if you
want to be let out for playtime). They know how to adjust their
desires to conform to the norms around. Transgressions are usually
minor (‘Don’t do that, George’) and behaviour modified in the light
of poten- tial recriminations. Very few five-year-olds are prepared
to miss playtime, for example.
Joss works outside the social mores of five-year-old classroom
behaviour, so his steps towards stamping his individuality on his
environment are more
32 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
dramatic and the consequences of his actions more far reaching. But
without this expression of self, he would be left with only the
inward sadness and its outward manifestation of silent tears. If
Joss were to lose that giggle; that desire to be bold and fearless;
that love of running and the thrill of the chase; the satisfaction
of a well-executed plan; in short, if Joss were to lose his spirit
what would be left? Probably no more than an unhappy, withdrawn,
spiritless child.
So, when Joss comes to school, eyes cast down, bottom lip
trembling, arms rigidly pushing us away, we do what we can to bring
out the spirit in him. And as we chase after him down the corridor
for the hundredth time, we almost cheer him on, hopeful that we are
seeing Joss as his true self.
Joss’s mum tells of the worries concerning Joss and his love of
running “Running was a huge concern, always has been, always will
be because the school wasn’t as safe as it is now, only because
he’s tested it to the limits. He’s tested school to the limits and
every time he’s done something they’ve had to realise just how
smart he is for working things out.
It’s all for the chase now. It’s really, really, really annoying
when he does it. I just think ‘you are being just naughty’. But
when he was little, with you, I used to think ‘Well, he can’t help
it. He doesn’t know what he is doing is wrong. He doesn’t
understand that he has got all this energy and he shouldn’t be just
dashing off everywhere. He has no idea about danger or
anything.’
He’s always liked the chase. He’s always done it for the chase. And
do you know what I think it is? You know Bedknobs and Broomsticks?
Well…the witch turns somebody into something and she ends up
turning one of the children into a rabbit and the cat chases the
rabbit up the stairs, round the house, then all of a sudden the boy
(who’s been changed into a rabbit) changes back into a boy and
starts chasing the cat. So there’s this great big chase thing going
on and he’s loved that film. He’s always loved that film. He does
it now, in here. You can see him, he’s acting out that scene and
he’s dashing down the stairs and he just thinks it’s hilarious and
it’s all to do with the video. He loves being chased and thinks
it’s absolutely the best thing when someone is chasing him. I know
he knows but all those years ago he didn’t. He just had to do
it.
…If I thought he could cross the road, if I thought he had any road
sense whatsoever, it wouldn’t worry me half as much as it does, but
the fact that he doesn’t have any, I just think oh god…
I think he was driven to do it. I think when he was little it was
all that gluten and whatever was going on with the blood and
casein. You know, all this stuff
THE RUNNER 33
going into the blood – going into the brain through his blood
stream that shouldn’t be going in. But that’s a lot more under
control now…mind he’s still continued it [the running] for years.
It’s maybe taken years to get it out of his system.”
Starting school “…I didn’t want him to go anywhere else. I didn’t
want him to go away. I knew he couldn’t go in the ordinary school.
He just couldn’t. I didn’t know about the special needs schools. I
wanted somewhere that was autism specific.
…I wanted somewhere that was safe. Safety was the first issue. I
knew it had to be safe and I thought the Unit was safe. It’s only
when he did things that I realised he wasn’t safe. He’s done things
recently where they’ve had to make adjustments because of the way
he’s got out. So, safety. And I wanted people who knew about autism
and could do something else than toilet train him. I just thought
that was such a massive step when he was toilet trained that I
thought, maybe he’s never had any other professional input before,
apart from this speech therapy class with about eight other kids.
It was just chaos. They just ran round screaming. It was bedlam. It
was a waste of time, totally.
…Being safe really was the overriding issue for everything. I
really wouldn’t have cared what the school was like as long as it
was safe, as long as I knew he was going there and he was going to
be all right…some of the time it wasn’t as safe as it could
be.
…He’s got to do it or attempt to before you realise he has that
capability. I mean I never went round school and said ‘he will be
able to get round there and over there and through this and don’t
do that’…so I know that he would do things that you wouldn’t expect
him to do like to be able to climb over that fence. I didn’t know
he would do that and he would do it when you least expect him
to.
…We used to absolutely love it when he was ill. He’d be laid on the
sofa because he wasn’t very well – I mean there weren’t many of
those days – but we used to think god this is absolutely gorgeous,
because he was safe. He didn’t want to do anything and it was just
peace, perfect peace. None of this charging around like a
whirlwind…it used to do my head in. It used to abso- lutely crack
me up. You just couldn’t take your eyes off him for a second. I
used to have to follow him everywhere. I used to have to follow
him. Everything he did he had to be constantly supervised. I
couldn’t go in the shower unless [my husband] was here to watch
him. Anything really, you couldn’t come in here to cook the tea
without [my husband] being in there or in here while I was
out
34 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
there to look after him. [By the time he went to school] I
basically wanted rid of him, to give him to someone else for five
days a week. He was a worry. I think I was just relieved to have
him in a school, to have him in a school that I wanted to have him
in, that was right.
I like to know that the people who work with him care about him
[very distressed]…and the way people would talk to me about him I
used to think oh he’s really getting on your nerves…
…I used to compare him to what everybody else was like and what
they were doing and if one of them took a tantrum, I used to think
‘yes, he’s just like little Joss’…he’s not the only one. He’s not
the worst, after all. Because that’s what it sometimes felt like,
that he was the absolute worse. Well, he is still sometimes, the
worse out of any person who’s ever been autistic.
I never had any concerns [about the class]. I just always thought
he was safe and that you three did care about him, maybe because he
was little as well. He was only little. He was only five, so he did
have his canny days occasion- ally…
I always thought that you would have it so much in control – that
he would never get in that situation where he would get out and go
and be away. I always thought if he did get out, if he did get
away, you’d easily be able to get hold of him and so on… But I
mean, you really had to keep tight hold of him when you went out.
So, when he was little I did used to think ‘Oh I wish they just
wouldn’t go out’ and then I thought you were trying to help him
taking him out. But it was a worry…I always thought ‘Yes, he might
get on the road. There’s a chance he might get run over.’ But as
for him getting lost or someone being able to, like, take him that
never entered my head because I thought if he does go there is
going to be someone after him like straight away… Now, I don’t want
him to be fit. I don’t want him to be fit and fast and athletic… I
would always have said that that school should do much more
exercise in the day but it just dawned on me recently that the more
exercise he gets, the fitter he’s going to get… I don’t want him to
be fit. I want him to lie on the sofa and think I can’t be bothered
to do that… Say he didn’t have that running away thing, then yes…I
would want him to be fit…but it’s just dawned on me that the more
unfit he is the more he’ll be inclined to think oh I can’t be
bothered to run so…but on the other hand I don’t want him unfit and
unhealthy. I’d like him to be fit and healthy. It is a dilemma, but
I’ll opt for the ‘oh I’m too fat to run’.
…When he’s happy it would set alarm bells because it means he’s
planning something, but I didn’t realise what he could get up to,
what he
THE RUNNER 35
could do, so I used to think ‘Oh, he’ll be getting up to something’
but I didn’t really think he’s going to end up running away or
getting lost. But I preferred him to be happy and naughty – I don’t
know if I want him to be unhappy and good or unhappy and naughty. I
don’t know. It’s a dilemma. Oh, he’s one on his own, little Joss,
he is!”
36 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
Chapter 2
Our Little Princess
Alice has short dark hair and a round face with brown eyes and
freckles. She would love to look like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty
but in reality she is a plump and rather tomboyish little girl.
Alice has good communication skills although she has difficulty
using and understanding language flexibly. Out- wardly friendly,
she struggles to understand and conform to social rules and can be
quite dramatic and vocal when things confuse or upset her. She
loves drawing princesses. She can be mischievous but also
charming.
* * * Alice stands out on that first day – the day that Joss’s
sadness and my inability to lessen it threaten to overwhelm us
both. She seems to be a very capable and cooperative little girl. I
am both surprised and relieved to have her in the class. Surprised
because I have little idea that a child with autism can relate to
anyone as well as she appears to. Relieved because, as every
teacher will admit (if only secretly), every classroom needs one
such child – a child that wants to cooperate; will at the very
least attempt to do the work you set; and best of all with a desire
to earn praise and favour from the teacher. In a class as lively as
mine, to have one child who, in my rather naive judgement, can
apparently be relied on to conform feels like a godsend.
Of course, when I say relied on, I should qualify that. There are,
on that first day, five children. Three have severe communication
problems, one can make himself understood, but in a unique and
often cryptic fashion; four have behav-
37
ioural problems which range from wanting to be left alone no matter
what, to being hyperactive and needing constant watching. Then
there is Alice.
It is true that Alice can complain loudly and dramatically about
not wanting to do this task or that. It is also true that Alice can
flounce as well as the most moody and seasoned teenager (although
she is only six). But of all the children, she is the only one who
says ‘Hello Fran’ and who follows my instructions with ease. I am
too caught up with the general chaos to notice the gentle, kindly
support Alice is being discreetly given by the more knowing
teaching assistants who have worked with Alice for a year before my
arrival and know she is less capable than I give her credit for on
that first day. Like many people unfamiliar with autism, I make the
mistake of assuming that because her language skills are good, her
understanding of meaning and intention are equally advanced. I
learn, in time, that Alice’s apparent confi- dence masks a problem
with social and emotional understanding that can make life very
difficult for her. I am still very aware, and very grateful, that
Alice can at least be persuaded to conform.
As I have already mentioned, Erin and Sally have worked with Alice
for a year and know just how to do that talking round. I have not
appreciated just how hard they are working behind the scenes to
keep Alice sweet and to persuade her to be on her best behaviour
(i.e. ‘behave like a princess’) on this first fraught day. In time,
I too understand that there are certain ways of talking to Alice
that encourage cooperation and compliance and it is not long before
I too employ these techniques shamelessly when the need arises. But
more of that later. For the moment I am simply grateful that there
is one child who is being cooperative and responsive to my
ever-dwindling array of skills, brought from my years in a
mainstream classroom to this small lively bunch of kids.
* * *
38 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
The reason we gather around the Round Table is for our daily
story-time. Ini- tially this is an event I dread, as it appears
that nobody is in the least bit inter- ested in hearing a story.
Indeed, hadn’t I read that this was so? And wasn’t the complete
absence of books in the classroom further proof that these children
were only interested in books to tear them, throw them or
repetitively stare at one page over and over? Once again, Alice
appears to be the exception. She enjoys being read to and will
listen to stories from start to finish. But it seems everyone else
is focused on anything but the bright, colourful book I hold before
me.
My usual opening gambit, said in a bright and breezy voice, ‘Oh,
look at this picture, what do you think this story is about?’ – a
line that had served me well enough in my previous teaching
experience – here elicits a range of responses, from blank
indifference to determined efforts to grab the book and use it as a
missile. It confirms everything I have read about children with
autism. Why should they be interested in a story about unreal
happen- ings when they have no communication skills, no
understanding of social exchanges and no imaginations? Perhaps we
should just stick to singing, where at least the rhythm and actions
seem to have a calming effect. But I really enjoy story-time. I
want these children to learn to love it too. After all, what can be
a richer language experience, a greater social event, and a more
exciting glimpse into the world of the imagination than the shared
experience of a good book?
So I struggle on. Alice responds. Not to the story, you understand,
but to my lack of any semblance of order. Alice encouragingly, and
with a slightly patronising edge to her voice, comments, ‘Fran,
Joss is trying to go under the table’ and ‘Fran, I don’t think
Lotti is very happy’, as Lotti launches herself, teeth gnashing, at
a hapless Erin, already struggling to prevent Toby from taking
Nathan’s comic in an act fuelled by mischief and indifference to
the enriching qualities of literature.
I refuse to be defeated. Once again, after a steep learning curve,
I discover that things that hold true with other children also hold
true here, just on a dif- ferent scale. These children can and do
enjoy being read to, but everything has to be so much bolder,
brighter and larger than life. All that is necessary is to choose a
book and then learn to read it the right way. Up the drama,
exagger- ate the actions, ensure the story is rich in repetition,
make the voices distinct and different, build up the rhythm, keep a
good pace going and most impor- tant of all choose good
stories.
OUR LITTLE PRINCESS 39
They say teachers are thwarted actors. I have never had any desire
to be on stage, but I know (Sally and Erin have told me) that I put
everything I have into storytelling, and I have become as dramatic
and theatrical as necessary to engage the children in an enjoyable
book experience.
Fortunately there is a wealth of excellent books to choose from
(see Appendix 1). It is not long before every child has his or her
own particular favourites. For Nathan it is ‘We’re going on a Bear
Hunt’ – great rhythm, won- derful actions and an ending that can
have Nathan wide-eyed on the edge of his seat every time he hears
it, barely able to contain his excitement when we get to the part
where the bear roars. Joss loves all books with counting in, such
as ‘Ten Little Bears’ and ‘The Hungry Cat’. Rote counting is often
an area of learning where children with autism are particularly
successful, so tapping into this is a great way of introducing
books and the pleasure of reading and listening to stories.
Toby loves anything that means he can shout out, such as ‘Wake Up
Farmer George!’ and ‘Lullabyhullabaloo’. He also loves action books
and these are great for channelling his considerable energies.
Lotti likes stories with a singsong text and a strong beat, such as
‘There was an Old Woman’, and any book with bold bright pictures,
that can excite and delight her with an intensity that is enviable.
So we build up a library of books, and as the children learn to
love the stories so they learn to respect books. Understand- ing
more about how books work, they begin to choose books spontaneously
from the book box that now has pride of place in the classroom. I
am always delighted to see any of these children, who struggle with
so much, get a book and find a quiet place to enjoy it at their
level – whether that means staring over and over at a picture, or
turning the pages rapidly, or reciting, with accurate intonation
but unintelligible diction, the whole story. It is exciting to have
opened up another interest for a child who is often locked in
repetitive behaviour. The fact that none of these children would
score on a comprehen- sion test about the books they read in no way
diminishes the satisfaction of having introduced them to books and
opened up another world, however it is they choose to interpret and
get pleasure from that world.
Once we have built up a library of fun stories that grab the
attention of our discerning listeners we introduce the notion that
each child can take turns to choose a book. This is sometimes
challenging, as one child’s choice does not necessarily please all,
but it is an invaluable social experience, and as time goes by, and
everyone understands that their turn will come, a level of
tolerance and interest in others’ choices enriches the value of
story-time further. Once a
40 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
story is in full swing, it is usually possible to engage all at
some level, with a combination of exaggerated actions, funny
voices, bright pictures and repeated phrases. It is only when Alice
chooses her favourite book that we have a problem.
Alice, like so many little girls of her age, dreams of being a
princess and her choice of story is always about one of the
well-known princesses of the fairytales. Alice likes traditional,
rather pedestrian, fairy tales as retold by Ladybird. Alice does
not care one jot if no one else is interested in tales of beautiful
young damsels in distress. Of course, the rest of the class are
totally disinterested. They see no reason why they should spare
Alice’s (or anyone else’s) feelings about this. They show their
disinterest, as always, by their behaviour, none of which is polite
or reasonable. Although I do not squeal, jump up and down on my
chair, try to hide under the table or attempt to attack my nearest
neighbour, I must admit to having some sympathy for their
responses. I have come to love the buzz of reading bright, lively,
funny stories that encourage a wealth of unimagined responses from
these children with their unique, bizarre, funny take on
life.
Alice doesn’t care what we think. She does not concern herself with
the fact that Sally and Erin are faced with an uphill struggle to
keep the attention of her disinterested and restless classmates.
She cannot conceive that they, like her, are not utterly enchanted
with these tales of beautiful princesses beating all the odds to
win the hand of a handsome prince.
It doesn’t bother her that the stories she chooses have no bright
pictures, lack strong rhythmic text and involve no counting
(although I do try to emphasise that there are seven dwarves – but
as we are not allowed to count them Joss is unimpressed even with
this fact). For Alice knows her stories off by heart and they have
to be read from cover to cover without repetition, devi- ation or
hesitation. I do my best to try to make the stories go with a bit
more panazz, but the material I am working with and Alice’s strict
parameters make it very difficult. For her, these tales have to be
strictly of the ‘Once upon a time…and they all lived happily ever
after’ variety and I think she genuinely relates to the rather
old-fashioned language of the Ladybird tales.
We try a different tack. We seek out all the princess-related books
we can find that might satisfy the criteria for a successful read.
We introduce new stories about more gutsy princesses, the sort that
scream and throw tantrums, such as the wonderful little princess of
Tony Ross’s creation. All the children love the story, because the
little princess screams at the top of her voice ‘I want my potty’
and all the courtiers shout to one another ‘She wants her
potty!’
OUR LITTLE PRINCESS 41
After several sessions of me, Sally and Erin pretending to be an
array of characters and startling and amusing the children with our
range of funny voices, this story becomes a wonderful starting
point for social interaction and confidence building. The book
comes with a little rag-doll princess complete with bright green
potty, that we pass around the table, as a variety of charac- ters,
from the admiral to the cook, call out ‘She wants her potty!’ To
hear the bold, but barely audible shout of ‘She wants her potty’
come from the usually silent Joss is one of my more treasured
moments as a teacher, along with the sight of Lotti, who up to that
point has never shown the slightest interest in dolls, or pretend
play, tipping the princess off her potty and exclaiming ‘Oh dear’
in a deep, playful voice. Even Nathan and Toby call a truce to
solemnly pass the princess to one another, giving her a parting
kiss along the way. This was truly story-time at its best, and ‘I
want my potty’ becomes one of the class’s all-time
favourites.
Alice, however, knows what she likes. When her turn comes around
back into the book box goes our much loved gutsy, naughty, rather
scruffy little princess and out comes the small, neat Ladybird
fairy tale, in all its traditional glory. Despite all our attempts
at subterfuge and persuasion – from reading to her on her own just
before group story-time to making it the least obvious book in the
book box – Alice sticks to her choice and of course we respect
that.
* * * As you can probably guess, Alice’s all-time favourite is Snow
White, and as the story begins she loses herself in the
make-believe world of fairy-tale land. It is stated in all the
textbooks that children with autism lack imagination. I would
question this view, as I have seen children deeply absorbed in play
that has an imaginative element to it, but I would qualify this by
saying that the quality of that play is not the same as the play of
most boys and girls of similar ages, often incorporating an
autistic child’s unique take on life.
I think it is fair to say that Alice plays at being a princess
differently to other little girls. Where they might listen to a
story then go away and develop elaborate dramas of their own,
Alice, on hearing Snow White, for example, becomes that particular
Snow White as represented by that particular story version. Rather
than listen and then take away the ideas, Alice’s language, her
facial expressions and her actions exactly mimic those of the Snow
White in the storybook. Alice seems to enter into the very essence
of the particular sto- rybook princess she is listening to at the
time.
42 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
And she becomes that princess with all the skill of an Oscar
winning actress. Sometimes we wonder at her ability to feel the
emotions so intensely and worry that she might never recover from
the poisoned apple, without a real Prince Charming to wake her up.
But she does and just like in the fairy tale lives happily ever
after.
Watching Alice become Snow White as she listens to the story will
chal- lenge even the most convinced theorist to modify their view.
Whilst Alice is not imagining her own version of Snow White, rather
she ‘becomes’ Snow White as she mirrors exactly the unfolding
story, we too suspend our belief and see the princess in her. For
us too, as the story unfolds, Alice is no longer our plain, plump
little schoolgirl with learning difficulties. She is a beautiful
little princess – albeit one who has around her a court of
restless, cross and dis- enchanted courtiers all pretty much
indifferent as to whether or not Alice is to get her very own
Prince Charming.
The reason I am cautious about accepting that Alice has no
imagination rests not only on what could be argued to be merely
copying of a story and pictures – although it is difficult to
explain how she could be so emotionally involved in that copying if
her imagination was not in some way engaging with the unfolding
drama of the story – but also because she does occasion- ally
attempt to rope her classmates into joining in her fantasy. Alice
knows that a princess wears beautiful clothes, has exquisite
dancing shoes and always gets to kiss the most handsome man in the
kingdom. Alice knows all these things. And occasionally, without a
book to follow, Alice transforms herself into a princess, tossing
back her imaginary flowing locks and pointing her dancing shoes in
readiness for her last dance with her very own Prince
Charming.
* * *
OUR LITTLE PRINCESS 43
Alice is fortunate in having good communication skills. We can
often reason and explain things to Alice, and she in turn can ask
questions about things she does not understand. Just as I was
initially surprised that Alice was in the class, some visitors to
the class questioned why such an apparently well-spoken, confident
girl needs the extra help a class like ours offers. In many ways it
was true that Alice could have fitted in to a mainstream class, as
her learning diffi- culties were moderate and her language skills
good. But Alice has many profound difficulties that emerge only
when the supportive ambience of her little class disappears and she
is faced with the less structured, less supportive environment of
the wider world. Then, problems of social understanding, of literal
interpretation of words and difficulties with interaction become
painfully evident.
It is agreed that Alice will benefit from some integration with a
main- stream classroom, enabling her to experience a richer
language environment and providing her with valuable social
experiences. She goes for an afternoon a week with Erin to support
her, and joins a class of five- to six-year-olds. Here, in a
bustling classroom, she sits at a table with six unfamiliar
children and attempts to join in. She is generally able to do the
work (better than some) but she relies heavily on Erin. The chatter
and movement of the other children confuses and disorientates
Alice. Without Erin by her side to reassure and help her she would
flounder. While she tries hard to be part of the group (with Erin
skilfully ensuring that the other children include her in their
conversation), Alice’s lack of understanding of the natural give
and take of conversation
44 THE LITTLE CLASS WITH THE BIG PERSONALITY
means it is difficult for her to keep up with these exchanges. She
laughs when others laugh, although she has not got the joke, then
laughs inappropriately because she thinks that is what is expected
of her. She has to work hard, and be constantly encouraged by Erin,
in order to stay afloat in this sea of activity that is her group
table. Amidst their easy chitchat, Alice’s difficulties show up in
sharp relief. Whereas in our class of seven she is one of the most
attentive and reliable, here the hubbub of classroom life is almost
overwhelming her. Her senses become overloaded. She can’t
concentrate on her work but neither can she join in the fast,
furious conversation, with its accompanying subtle nuances of
social exchange that mean nothing to her. She lacks the guile of
the naughty ones and the concentration of the hard workers. Gently,
Erin acts as interpreter, prompt and voice for Alice as she tries
to steer her through the social milieu of primary school classroom
life.
At playtime, her difficulties become more acute. The vastness of a
play- ground teaming with bodies and noise is quite overwhelming.
Again, without Erin here to provide a safe anchor of familiarity
Alice would be very much out of her depth. The confidence that she
displays in our small yard with children who are happy to do their
own thing is replaced with trepidation. It becomes clear that this
may not be the most helpful way to broaden Alice’s educational
experiences, and in time she stops going to the school.
I think it is difficult for anyone, even adults with all their
social know how, to join an established group and join in
confidently, but Alice’s difficul- ties are more profound than the
issue of confidence alone. The sheer stress of trying to manage all
the social skills needed to be part of mainstream class- room life
means Alice is functioning in a state of anxiety, even with the
support of a well-qualified adult. Her difficulties, which are
masked to a degree by the supportive environment of her little
class, come to the fore in the larger, more robust environment of a
busy primary school class.
When Sam joins our class the opportunity arises to try a different
form of integration. Forestpark is a primary school for children
with moderate lea
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